


Contemplation

by ununpentium



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-11 00:05:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8944732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ununpentium/pseuds/ununpentium
Summary: It was the early hours of the morning and Sherlock couldn't sleep. His mind felt like it would burst with thoughts and feelings he couldn't name. He deals with it the only way he knows how.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I just want to write some angsty, unwell Sherlock. 
> 
> Obviously this fic revolves around self harm, so please don't read if that will affect you.

 

John was fast asleep, his chest rising and falling rhythmically, soft sounds escaping his lips. Moonlight filtered in through the bedroom window, illuminating John's side of the bed. It was 4.36am and Sherlock had been observing John for an hour, noticing every tiny detail he could make out without disturbing him. Sherlock couldn't sleep, which was usual. His thoughts felt too big for his head and so he was trying to focus his attention solely on John as a way of ordering his mind. Tonight it was not a very effective method and Sherlock grew restless. In the dead of night when no-one else could see, Sherlock let himself _feel,_ in a way that he could not in front of other people. He told everyone who would listen that he was a high functioning sociopath, when really he cared so much that he couldn't hold it all inside his body. John and Sherlock had been openly together for years now, for the most part they were happy together (apart from when Sherlock stored body parts in the fridge next to the food), but Sherlock still carried around huge guilt. It broke him to fake his own death in front of John, and then to go into hiding for two years while he dismantled Moriarty's network. He often thought of John, about what he might be doing. Needless to say, he hadn't expected John to be engaged when he returned. Still, they were together now and John has said he's forgiven Sherlock, but Sherlock still struggled.

He carefully climbed out of bed and padded into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Sherlock sat down on the edge of the bath and reached behind the toilet cistern for a small wooden box hidden there. Inside lay a single scalpel, and the blade glinted in the light as Sherlock removed it from the box. It had been almost 6 months since Sherlock had last cut himself. John had carefully tended to his wounds, bandaging them with care, but he couldn't understand why Sherlock cut his skin. He was clued up enough not to remove everything sharp from the flat, understand that by doing so it would force Sherlock to be more secretive about obtaining sharp objects and how often he used them. John knew how to care for people physically, and he was good at that. If he couldn't understand Sherlock's mental state then at least he could still do his part by tending to Sherlock's wounds.

Sherlock turned the scalpel over in his hands, feeling the weight of it. He pulled up his t-shirt to expose the white flesh of his stomach and the neat rows of scars which adorned the left hand side. His mind was still full to bursting with thoughts and scraps of cases, emotions that he couldn't quite name but nonetheless felt strongly. He just needed some peace and quiet, to let out some of the noise in his head so that it didn't feel quite so scary. Just as he was about to make the first cut, the door opened and John walked into the bathroom.

"Sherlock, don't." John's pyjamas were rumpled from where he had been sleeping on them and his voice was still thick from sleep.

Sherlock turned his head towards John. "What other choice do I have?"

John carefully walked over to where Sherlock sat on the bath, and knelt down in front of him.

"It hurts me to see you hurt yourself. I love you and I care about you deeply, I don't want to see you injured." John's voice caught in his throat.

"I don't know how else to deal with what's in my head. It feels too much to bear John! Cutting myself is at least a fairly non-lethal way of draining some of it. It's precise. Taking drugs just increases the likelihood I'll overdose, and you remember what happened last time." Sherlock still turned the scalpel over in his hands.

"I know you can't stop cutting without there being some other coping mechanism in place. But so far you've just been using really fucking dangerous ones! If it's not cutting or overdosing, you're taking dangerous risks at work and nearly getting yourself killed in the process. You can't carry on like this. _We_ can't carry on like this. Please, get some proper help. I'm not a psychiatrist, I can only do so much."

John stood up and gently enveloped Sherlock in his arms, peppering his hair with kisses. 

"I'm scared," Sherlock said quietly.

"I know, I know. But we can do this together, love. Put the scalpel away Sherlock."

Sherlock slowly and carefully put the scalpel back into the box, and placed the box on the floor. He stood up slowly and stepped towards John. Suddenly he threw his arms around John and buried his face in his chest, like a child would hug an adult for comfort. John held Sherlock tightly, whispering softly into his ear.

"I love you, I love you, I love you. We can do this together."

Maybe, just maybe Sherlock could do this with John by his side. 

 


End file.
